Twisted Trail

CHAPTER 1

IT SEEMED AS though someone not himself was trying desperately to swim upwards toward some metaphysical light through a dead black hole, a black hole that was filled with one hell of a lot of violet light, sprinkled with yellow specks and pain; lots of pain. The pain in his head seemed to grow in direct proportion to the amount of sun light that was beginning to slowly filter through eyelids stuck closed with dried blood. Each and every heartbeat was now sending shockwaves of pain, pain that was somehow coordinated to the cascade of violent colors that were the sum total of his vision. The puce purple background was still there; the dancing yellow dots were now coalescing into lighting-like streaks with tinges of green. However, as the sunlight slowly became brighter, what seemed to be an unrelenting milieu of colors had begun to subside. Someone said that time heals all wounds; I guess it’s true, if you live. Time did pass, and with its passing, the sunlight grew a little brighter, and the agony in his head began to dull just enough to allow the seeds of awareness to blossom. The sound that issued from his dust dry throat was like no sound he had made before, hell, he wasn’t even sure that it was him who had made the sound, and for that matter, he wasn’t, couldn’t, be sure of just one damn thing.

Awareness was dawning, and with it a cascade of unanswerable questions, questions that only seemed to add to the state of disorientation that already existed. Where was he? How did he get to where ever he was? Why did his head feel like it had been caught up in the middle of a stampede? Weirdest of all, who was he? Trying to sort things out, all that he was able to come up with was more questions that seemed to have no answers. It seemed as though he was lying in a bed. How’d he get here and who brought him here? He also knew that some one had bandaged his head and otherwise taken some care of him; and that his head, for some reason hurt like hell.

Figuring just laying there wasn’t gonna’ get much done, he tried experimenting a little and found that he could move his arms and legs, and that he was pretty much otherwise intact. Just that simple knowledge brought about a considerable sense of relief. There was another awareness starting to supersede all else; his bladder was sending a most urgent need to find some relief. Well hell, he figured that faint hearts don’t win fair ladies, and he tried to stand. The attempt being met with a wave of considerable dizziness, a flash of the light-pain that sent all six-foot-two-inch, two hundred twenty-one pounds of bone, muscle, and sinew in a slow motion crash onto the rough plank floor.

The distinct sound of a falling body created a flurry of activity. It galvanized the people who had been thus far mostly responsible for the help he received, rushing to the nearby bedroom. Joe and his daughter rushed into the room and came to a dead stop staring in near disbelief at the sprawled figure lying prone on the floor. Necessity spurred them to action, and with much struggle, grunting, and exertion, managed to get the stranger back into the bedstead. There they left him, still out cold, and went back into the main living room. It was time to sort of try and figure things out a bit.

Joe Atkins was the owner of a small spread situated about 25 miles from Colewood. It was the nearest town of any mention. Between himself and his daughter Nancy, they ran the place raising cattle for the meat market along with some of the finer horses to be found in the territory. It wasn’t the biggest spread the territory had, but ya’ could see that great care in planning, coupled with a love of the land, had created a homestead that appeared to be a part of the earth that it sat upon. If ya didn’t know better, ya’ mita’ thought that it had just sprung up out of the ground like the old valley oaks that surrounded the place.

The main house, bunkhouse, out buildings, and corrals were set well back, nestled up into a generous v formed by the soaring bluff behind and the joining hills hugging either side. The veranda fronted the house and from it one could look out over a wide valley lush with knee high grass. It was in this meadowland where the market cattle grazed along with those horses that weren’t in either the corrals or stabled. A multitude of springs both large and small, brought a continuous supply of water to the main house and barn, all gravity fed, clear, sweet, and clean. The springs also supplied water to the grassland higher up; at their source they merged to form small rills and streamlets. This constant source of water kept the grass green most all the year and the stock well fed, as well as watered. This source of water was perhaps the most valuable asset that Joe controlled. Without it, life would just stop being.

After getting their unexpected guest back to the safety of the bedstead and returning to the living room, Joe and his daughter just sorta’ looked at each other. There were no words spoken, but by the way they took each other in, the expressions on their faces held a world of unspoken questions. They had no way of knowing that many of those questions were the very same ones that the tall man lying in the next room were and would be many times in the future, be asking himself. The very strangeness of the situation was the major concern and in the forefront of the thoughts of everyone. Joe, his daughter, the several hands that cowboy’d there, and perhaps most of all the man in bed.

Waking up for the second time it was just a little bit better, not great, but better than waking up just to pass out again. Hell, he didn’t even have to groan this time. The pain was still there of course but less, and the damn colors were gone. That was good. The second try brought him to a sitting position and with one more supreme effort he was up on two feet. A little dizziness, a couple of bouts of nausea, and he was able to make his way outside to the out back so as to answer natures pressing command. He was weaving his way back to the house and was damn near halfway there when Joe spotted him. Running out to get a hold of him, Joe sorta’ steadied him up enough to get him headed back in the right direction. ’Bout that time Nancy saw what was going on and raced out to join the struggle. Between the two of them they managed to half drag, half walk, him back to the house and back into bed. There was little he could do to protest and they left him to himself, resting as easy as possible under the circumstances.

Joe sat down in the big old leather covered favorite chair of his and sorta’ pondered a bit while Nancy repaired to the kitchen. She knew what was needed and wasted little to no time getting things done. The beef potage, sorta’ half gravy half broth, and rich with fat, didn’t take but a little time to get hot. The bread was still plenty fresh from the mornings baking and she sliced off a couple of thick slabs. Gravy in a bowl, bread on a plate, she returned to the bedroom and eyed the young man a moment before approaching the bed and sitting down. No words had passed between them, but something sure as shootin’ had. Regardless, she dipped the bread into the hot broth. Saying open she popped the dripping bread into his mouth, a mouth still hanging open in bewildered amazement. Chew and swallow, was all she said while getting another piece of bread ready.

Whether your hurt’n or not, yaw still have your feelings to go on and what he was feeling at the moment was sorta’ unsettling. He knew his head was hurting and he knew and was grateful for the aid he was getting. How, who, or why, was still up for grabs. He was also feeling like two kinds of a jackass. First off, just going out to take a piss and he had to be helped back into bed by folks he didn’t even know, and now this. Here he was a grown man and being hand fed by one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It might be I died and went to heaven and for sure not hell, he thought, but sheer embarrassment of his situation pushed those thoughts away. Nancy was already proffering another chunk of gravy-sopped bread and the embarrassment faded as the realization of just how hungry he really was took hold. Still no words had passed between them, but he continued to eat until the bread and gravy were gone. Even with all the emotions his mind had generated, sleep, like a silent thief, stole over his muddled mind bringing with it it’s own separate reality. Whatever dreams he dreamt were his as he lay silent, prone, almost as though dead, with the exception of the rising and falling of his chest.

Dead, that sure as God’s little green apples was what they thought he was when they found him lying out on the range, and sure enough what he was gonna’ be given just a little more time. To everyone’s surprise, it looked like he was gonna’ make it, and then maybe they get to know what was what about things. The whole set of circumstances was mighty odd and downright mysterious when ya’ come to think about it. A couple of Joe’s cowboys had found him laying in the dirt along side the trail. They said how they had found the horse first with the big bay just standing there off the trail, sorta’ ground hitched, reins trailing in the dirt. When ya’ spend twelve hours or so a day in the saddle, ya’ learn to respect a good horse, and this one looked to be something special. Anyways, it sure enough caught their attention and well it should have.

He stood about sixteen hands, maybe a little more; a deep chest and long legs were coupled with a straight back and powerful hindquarters. When most horses of the time were wild broke mustangs, to see a horse of this quality wasn’t all that usual. Joe had some fine horses on the ranch, and this one stood a cut above. Maybe a cross between a Justin Morgan and one of those Kentucky thoroughbreds you here tell about, but hardly ever see west of the Ole Miss. One thing for sure, he was all horse and a lot of him at that. Dismounting and approaching him was a delicate proposition. He wasn’t mean, but not real friendly either. Maybe just proud, as he stood head held high, ears back a bit, as he eyed the men’s approach. They settled him a bit and saw that he was well taken care of, hoofs trimmed and clean, and well shod. He looked to be well fed and had a coat that shone from constant use of a currycomb. The rig he was wearing was in the same near perfect condition, well used and well taken care of without any extra frills or gee-haws that many of the cowboys of the day seemed to take such a fancy to.

Remounting, hell, a horseman wouldn’t walk across the street when he could ride when they found his rider about fifteen yards or so away. He was there just off the trail where he had fallen. He was lying there face down, lots a blood mingled with the red dusty earth and it seemed sure-as-shoot’n he was done for. There was a savage wound along the side of his head just above the ear, dry blood was crusted in his eyes and on his face and there was enough of it that it seemed he should have bleed to death if the head wound didn’t’ kill him first.

When they dismounted to take a closer look at the body, Shad stepped back in some surprise when he found the young man to be still showing a bit of life, well sorta’, anyways. Get that canteen over here yelled Shad. I’m gonna’ try n’ get some water into him for he dries out complete. Bobbie, you hightail it to the ranch and tell the boss what we found, get the buckboard hitched and get on back out here. Don’t stand there, get to it. It didn’t take a long time to get there and back as the ranch house was only about a mile and a half away and, as instructed, Bobbie high tailed it both ways. Shad stayed with the man while Bobbie was getting the rig, trying to give what first aid he could and trying to get some water into him. The water seemed to bring him around a bit, peered to Shad that he was trying to say something but blackness closed over him before he could get out anything that made sense. Well well, thought Shad, things were starting to get a little bit on the boring side here at the old Boxed Bar B, least now we got something to take the edge off it. Seems we got ourselves a real mystery to puzzle over and wonder who the hell he is anyways.

Bobbie got back with the buckboard, and as gently as possible under the circumstances, they loaded him onboard. Chad caught up his loose horse and tying him to the tailgate, they mounted and headed toward home. They road slowly, Bobbie taken real good care to miss most of the ruts and potholes that was what most of the road was made up of. They took an easy pace all the way and wondered plenty, but not really saying much about this unexpected turn of events. Driving into the front yard damn near up on the porch had caused a flurry of activity. Seemed as though everyone was moving at once and all knew just what to do. Bobbie and Chad, along with Joe, got him up and carried into the back room and into bed. Between the three of them they managed to get off his moccasins and most of his cloths. Once that was done and he was under he covers there weren’t much else they could do. Nancy was already in the kitchen heating water and ripping up an old petticoat for bandages. The water heated, Nancy brought it into the room and proceeded to clean the head wound as best as possible. It was pretty much primitive stitching up the couple flaps of torn skin with just a needle and thread, but that was all that there was and it would have to do. Anyways seemed to help a bit and there was no more bleeding. She then used the clean cloth to bandage her work and keep things clean. That was about all that could be done for the time being and the four of them adjourned to the big old kitchen, sat down to the large round table where Nancy supplied them with large mugs of hot, strong coffee.

The kitchen was the heart of the house, it always seemed to be warm in the winter, smelled good from the cooking and sitting around the big round table made for easy conversation. The boys went over the facts of finding the horse and such, speculated on the ‘what and where’s’ of it all and would a stayed there the rest of the day if Joe didn’t ask them if there wasn’t something they should be doing. Finishing up their coffee more quickly than perhaps they wanted to, they headed out to their horses and Joe and Nancy were left to themselves to further discuss things.

The men of the West, meaning west of the Mississippi River, and the further west ya’ got, the more it seemed to be so, had a real simple code that was understood by all, was ironclad, and not to be broken. Might have been a little unsophisticated by eastern standards, but it was nevertheless pretty straight forward and deeply ingrained. Things like never turning away a stranger from your table, never denying a man a drink of water when he needed it, helping when it was needed, and above all ya’ just didn’t go asking questions unless invited. Especially ya’ didn’t go prying into their personals without being invited to do so. It went right along with not trying to pry out any more information from someone that they wanted to put forth on their own.

CHAPTER 2

THE WAR BETWEEN the states had been over for several years now, but the memories of the horror of the battlefields still remained, memories that most men wanted to put behind them but never able to quite do so. There were a whole lot of folks that had a whole lot of forgetting to do. What lay in the past was certainly past, but for many the bitterness of defeat and the devastating personal losses that occurred from not staying near their home and to start over and rebuild could never be completely erased from there memories. Most men handled there adversity well, returning home after filling their perceived duties and rebuilding there lives as best as possible. Others left with nothing to lose and perhaps more bold, moved west to start again. There was of course another element, those who were so embittered that they felt it was there right to take what they wanted at anyone’s expense, who blamed everyone and everything for there personal failings, whose lack of character and honor led them to an outlaw trail. Those folks of the old school still held their word to be their bond, hospitality the right of every stranger and any curiosity however great was pushed into the background by their unspoken, unwritten, code of honor. Joe was one of those that lived by that code of the West and that’s the way that he brought up his daughter. It followed that each stranger was met on his own terms that they proved or disproved themselves by their own merit. To most folks out west, doing was a lot more important than a lot of talk, talking didn’t get it done.

When Chad and Bobbie left the kitchen they knew what had to be done and set to it. First off was get that horse of his to stable, get his gear off, and make sure there was water and a handful of corn. That, along with a couple sheaves of hay, should hold him for a bit. Next was to get the man’s personals up to the ranch house and stored beneath his bunk along side of what he was already wearing. It took a lot of discipline not to look into those saddlebags. They were heavy enough, by God, but Joe just let it stay something to think about and headed back into the kitchen where everyone else had gathered.

They all sat down around the table again, coffee mugs were refilled and sipped at least once before anyone spoke. Coffee seemed to be almost the life blood of most cowboys lives, it tasted good, warmed your hands, and gave you some time to ponder on things without feeling like ya’ had to say something. Yep, coffee was a good thing. Finally Joe spoke up asking a question, Well boys, any of ya’ ever seen of him before? Or for that matter even heard tell of him? That got a round of no’s, and then another round of sipping and silence. What seemed a long time passed when Joe spoke up again, Well, you boys ride on out tha’ where ya’ found him. Look around a little and see what ya’ can find out. Hells bells, there must be some sort of sign about. Look about, see what’s what and come on back and report to me. Joe didn’t have to ask twice, he never did, the boys just finished up their coffee, stood up, pushed in their chairs, and without any further conversation left the house and went to their horses.

Their horses were standing at the hitching rail, saddled, but having loosened the girth strap they had to tighten ’em up again. Doing so they mounted and headed out to the spot where they found the man and his horse. Didn’t seem ta’ be a whole hell of a lot to see, but Joe ask ’em to look around and by God look around they would. One thing you just didn’t do was fail ta’ carry out one of Joe requests, not if ya’ wanted to keep on with the Boxed Bar B Brand. Once ya’ tasted the grub that Nancy put on ya’ were hooked sure, the wages were fair at a dollar a day, and all in all Joe was a damn good man to work for. He’d never ask anyone to do anything that he wouldn’t or hadn’t done himself, and that was damn little. So, Chad being the better at tracking than Bobbie was, that coupled with being the older of the two, started to ride out in ever widening circles looking for sign while Bobbie dismounted to study more closely the exact area where they found him. They did a lot of riding, walking and looking but neither of them could find much of anything to give him a clue as to what had happened or why. It was especially difficult to cipher things out what with meandering cattle in the area, the buckboards coming and going, along with the muddle of their own horse tracks. Doing the best they could under the circumstances they remounted and headed back to tell Joe what they found.

Not everyone would have left that site of a drama without knowing exactly what happened if not why. Almost any one of the members of the Nations living there before the White man’s coming, the Lakota, Blackfoot, Arapaho, and the Apache, in the southwest, those and almost any of the other greater and lesser Nations that still survived and had a child that was over five years old, could of figure out the whole sequence of events in a right short time. Chad and Bobbie were just plain old cowboys, relative strangers to the land compared to the thousands of years of culture and civilization that the Americans had developed before the coming of the Europeans. In these people’s lives knowledge such as this, although never written in any textbook nor taught in a classroom, was an integral part of their lives, indispensable to their survival. It was the type of knowledge that was known without thinking about, a learning that was ingrained from their earliest childhood on up, and it was a constant learning that went on until the circle of life was completed. The Europeans never did, nor perhaps never could fathom the way the Native Americans understand the land. As the White man thought in terms of rectangles and squares, the Indian people thought in terms of circles; the Whites